


Shipping

by starlightwalking



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Crack, Fluff, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Romance, Shipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 08:40:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3350411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/pseuds/starlightwalking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire and Enjolras are shipped. Literally. A weird American guy kidnaps them and shoves them in a box. Chaos ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shipping

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Buffintruda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buffintruda/gifts).



The day was bright and sunny, and Grantaire was drunk.

He often was, of course, but this was a special case. He had just met the most gorgeous man earlier, and he had tried to charm him into his bed; but, as usual, it hadn’t worked.

Grantaire was bored. He went to the Musain, well before any of his friends arrived, and decided to get drunk. He was not extremely upset about missing that hot man earlier, he just liked to get drunk, but he felt he needed an excuse.

He drank merrily, then mournfully, and finally madly. He was gleeful, then melancholy, and now furious. He got to his feet and held his glass above his head, shouting out,

“Oh! They always told me I was far too ugly for women, too disproportioned for men, to gross for humanity! I turn to drink, to wine, to liquor to console me, but it serves me not so well as it did; now I feel rage, I feel fury, I feel anger, and all for naught! It burns inside me, but it burns cold and empty; there is nothing left to burn. My friends, my friends, they let me stay because I amuse them, and for no other reason; Enjolras, the Apollo, the sun, the light, he despises me. If it were to him, he would cast me out! And his face, his eyes, his fine ass, it calls to me, I wish I could—!”

The door flew open and Grantaire abruptly stopped. He was used to seeing oddities, especially when he was drunk, but this was something else entirely. This was the strangest man he had ever seen, and that was saying something.

The man wore a blue and white suit of some sort, and a hat sillier even the ones worn by the bourgeoisie. A badge was pinned onto his chest, an emblem of the United States of America, if Grantaire recalled correctly. He carried a bag stuffed full of letters and spoke to him in brisk, if heavily accented, French.

“Monsieur Grantaire?” he queried.

“That is I,” he replied, dumbfounded, dropping his glass. “And you, my oddly dressed friend, are called what?”

“Very good,” the man said, ignoring his question. He walked through the Musain, pushing past the other guests until he reached Grantaire. Then the oddly dressed American grabbed him by the arm and forcefully dragged him out of the cafe.

“Unhand me, foreign fiend!” Grantaire exclaimed, trying to push away. “First you interrupt me in the midst of my woes, now you grab me and take me away; I admit I am hideous, but you are even more so! Not even one such as I would have any desire to go to your bed! Not even drunk in an alley, with my vision impaired, would I see you befit to receive my pleasures, O master of impropriety! You have taken me from my liquor. Enjolras and my friends are forever pestering me to revolt, to rise up, but I say this: I revoke my cynicism, I will revolt against you!”

“Just doing my job, sonny,” the foreigner said blithely. “Shipping. It’s messy business, but someone’s gotta do it.”

Grantaire was dragged out into the street, up to the strangest carriage-like contraption he had ever seen. He couldn’t read it, but there was writing on the side of the great metal thing in English.

“What is that beastly contraption?” he demanded.

The American grunted. “It’s a mail truck. It delivers post, and...shipments, like yourself.”

"I am being shipped?” he demanded in outrage. “I, a human being, base as I am, am still a human being! Do you not know the rights of the citizen ?”

The postman let him go, pulling out a box of flimsy-looking wood, a box larger than himself.

“In you go,” the man said with a flourish.

“I refuse to be subjected to such base brutality! I—” he declared. He was quite prepared to go on and on, but the American interrupted him.

“Enjolras is coming, too,” the man said simply.

Grantaire stopped mid-rant and further inspected the box. “But—it’s only big enough for me. We’d be squished.”

“The young lady who ordered your shipment felt a smaller box might be beneficial,” he said delicately.

Grantaire considered this from all angles. He bit his lip, narrowed his eyes, and said suspiciously, “You’re sure Enjolras is coming?”

“Sure as the sunrise,” the postman said breezily.

Grantaire climbed into the box. “All right. I’m in, Monsieur Pushypants.”

The postman smiled knowingly and closed the top of the box. Grantaire’s eyes widened in alarm as the American lifted the box up and shoved it into the back of his metal carriage. He waited, cramped in the box, until there was a sputtering, guttural noise not unlike repeated gunfire coming from close by him. The vehicle lurched forward and Grantaire let out a muffled shriek of surprise.

“You have fooled me!” he exclaimed, some of his drunken rage returning. “O foul postman of the Americas, you trap me in a box and set the National Guard on me! O, treachery!”

“That’s just the engine,” the American man said in amusement. “And my name’s John.”

“We are all named Jean in France,” Grantaire said sardonically.

“No, not Jean—John. It’s the American version,” John the Postman corrected. “Or the English version, at least.”

“Jehan?” he tried again. “One of my friends goes by that.”

“No, John,” he insisted. “It’s not a _zhh_ sound, it’s a _juh_ sound. Try it without your accent?”

“J...you...on. Jyon?”

“Good enough,” Jyon sighed. The “mail van” rolled through the streets of Paris, though all Grantaire could see were the insides of the papery brown box.

“What is this box made of?” he asked, tapping the walls. His flick damaged the box, denting it slightly. It was extremely flimsy.

“It’s cardboard,” Jyon explained. “Kind of like soft wood, or hard paper. I don’t think it’s been invented yet. What is year is it?”

“What do you mean?” Grantaire demanded. “Are you a time-traveler?”

Jyon shrugged. “I suppose so. I’m just doing my job—shipping.”

“It’s May of 1832,” Grantaire answered.

There was a pause. “Oh, buddy, I caught you just in time,” the American postman said sympathetically. “One month more and it would be too late.”

“What do you mean?” the skeptic asked suspiciously.

“Nothing,” Jyon said innocently. He stopped, the metal carriage jerking forward a few feet with inertia.

“I’m going to get your Apollo,” Jyon told him. “I’ll be right back.”

“Can I come with you?” Grantaire called out from the box.

“No. Stay here.” Jyon slammed the door and left. Grantaire waited, his stomach full of nervous butterflies. Enjolras was coming! To share this absurdly tiny box with him!

After a few minutes, the back door of the van was flung open. Grantaire almost screamed in surprise, but he kept it to only a yelp.

“Jyon?” he called out to the postman. “Is that you?”

“And the skeptic is there?” a familiar voice demanded. “You must be facetious, foreigner! If you think I would crawl like a beast into that box and dwell with fellow beasts and scoundrels, you are mistaken! There is no force on this world, no force present in this glorious country of France, that would permit me to abandon honor and duty to romp with that scraggly animal!”

Grantaire scowled. No other man could say that to him and keep his teeth in his mouth, but for Enjolras, he could endure it. He could gaze upon his face, bask in his radiant light, feed off the rays of hope and passion that the revolutionary emitted. He thirsted for that passion, but fell just short of it. Just short of pleasure.

“Calm your tongue, Monsieur Enjolras,” Jyon said warningly, and though Grantaire couldn’t see the postman, he could feel the anger growing in his voice. “I am following orders. This is not my shipment; it is the ship of a teenaged American girl who will live two hundred years in the future. You will get in the box willingly, or you will get in the box unwillingly. It is your choice.”

“I am tied to France, to Patria, my love,” Enjolras declared. “I prepare for a future where the people are loved and the king is dead,  _not_ for a future in the scoundrel’s bed, as doubtless he would wish!”

“Get in the box.” Jyon’s voice was flat. “Now.”

“Never!” Apollo said uprightly. “I will stay and revolt. I will do so now, if you push me further. Courfeyrac! Combeferre!” he called out.

“I didn’t want to have to do this,” Jyon said with a sigh. Then there was a thump and a cry of rage. Enjolras fell to the ground.

“Is he okay?” Grantaire called out in concern.

“He’ll be fine,” Jyon said with a grunt. “Can you get out of there? I need your help putting him in the box.”

Grantaire pushed up on the cardboard ceiling and burst out of the box. He jumped out of the van and grabbed one of the unconscious revolutionary’s arms. So close to Apollo, yet so far. They lifted him up into the metal carriage and dropped him into the box, his limbs hanging over the edges.

Jyon grabbed Enjolras’s arms and repositioned him so that there was room for Grantaire, too.

“Get back in,” Jyon instructed the drunkard. “I’ll seal you up.”

Grantaire hesitated. Though every instinct he possessed screamed to jump into that box and do unspeakable things to Enjolras’s body, he wasn’t the animal the revolutionary had painted him. “I...don’t think that would make him happy.”

Jyon sighed. “I thought you were all for this, Grantaire.” He hopped out of the van. “Do what you like for now, but you need to be in there, with him, when we reach the airport.”

“Airport?” Grantaire asked, puzzled.

“You will see.” Jyon closed the door and went back to his position as driver. The van started moving again, and Grantaire hurriedly sat down outside of the box, staring at the unconscious and angelic form of his Apollo.

Jyon drove for a very long time. Grantaire fell asleep after a while, leaning against the box. He let his hand fall into Enjolras’s just before he nodded off, though he was hesitant to do so. For once, he was content.

When he woke, he was propped up against the box, in a completely different position than he had when he had fallen asleep. For a brief moment he had no idea where he was, then it all came rushing back to him. He blinked, and blearily looked around him.

Enjolras had left the box, and was glaring at him steadily from the other side of the metal carriage.

“Good morning, my sunlight,” Grantaire said, faking cheeriness.

Enjolras only gritted his teeth and looked away. Grantaire slid over to him and said seductively, “Do you want to get in that box with me, O Apollo the Sun?”

The rebel leader scowled and pushed him away. “I would not touch that box again. Not after you and the foreigner knocked me out and dragged me in there!”

“It was his idea!” Grantaire protested.

“That does not remove the guilt from you!” Enjolras snapped, the fire in his eyes blazing to life.

Grantaire melted looking into his eyes. All his stubborn resolve washed away, and he groaned, the truth of his Apollo’s words sticking in him like a knife.

“Yes,” he mumbled in agreement, looking down at his feet and inspecting his old, worn-out shoes. He said nothing more. He knew he had wronged Enjolras, he knew he had violated what little trust and faith the leader had for him. And for once, he felt his guilt in full.

“What?” Enjolras said in surprise.

“You’re right,” Grantaire said heavily.

“Really?” He seemed genuinely shocked at this revelation; as if he hadn’t already known of Grantaire’s fragile self-esteem and his infatuation with Enjolras himself.

“Well, of course you’re right!” Grantaire exclaimed, glaring up at him with watering, bloodshot eyes. “You’re always right, yet always wrong. So passionate, arrogant, gorgeous—you fight the for the people, not for yourself. But I am no person to you! I am a mutt, a dog, a scoundrel—do not deny it, you said it yourself this very afternoon! I am less than human. I am a fool, a cynic, a nonbeliever, and thus not worth fighting for. Go on! deny it! We both know it is true. We both know you are too angelic, unreachable, perfect for one so hideous as I!”

Grantaire concluded his speech and spat at Enjolras’s feet. He glared into those fiery eyes and waited for a response, an outcry of rage; he hoped for it, to know that Enjolras really did hate him. If he said it clearly, he might have cause to end his longings.

Enjolras opened his mouth and growled out, “You dare? You dare accuse me of not caring? I care for all! The people of France are my brethren, all its people, even you, R!”

Grantaire’s head jerked a little at the use of his nickname. This was...unexpected.

“I admit, I have treated you poorly,” Apollo went on, “but I did not know what else to do. You were hateful—despicable—an enemy, an opponent. I should have cast you out. The others would not have stopped me. They did not care for you yet. But you interested me, and you unsettled me. A dreamer is locked beneath your cynicism; I have seen your paint-stained hands and clothing, clutching a wine bottle and blending the colors of pastels and the glass. You mock me, you mock our cause, but you do not leave.”

He took a deep breath and glared at Grantaire, then continued, leaning forward, his eyes burning with passion, “You know the world and have rejected it. I seek to know it better, to restore it—I wish you knew!” Enjolras cried out angrily. “I wish you could see the light in the eyes of the plotters, the hope flaming in the bosoms of the mothers and the fathers, the untamed wildness of the children’s passion—I wish you knew why I am passionate! But you seem so cold, and though I yearn to show you, I fear you will turn away without looking. You unsettle me, R. You act as if uncaring and heartless, but you paint, you create, you help and give and are merry. I wish you could show me, the way you live among the people and do good in small ways, for I only comprehend greatness.”

He stopped, his eyes wide with wonder and fear, confusion and hope. His lips were turned up in a hesitant, hopeful smile, and Grantaire could not decide whether he wanted to paint him or to kiss him.

He had no easel, so he chose the latter.

“Show me,” he whispered, leaning in until he could feel Apollo’s breath and hear his beating heart. “I am not afraid.”

Enjolras’s lips were as soft and warm as he had imagined, and had a most wonderful taste about them. Grantaire had gone in full-force, intending the kiss to passionate and rude, but Enjolras cupped his head in his hands and kissed him back, making the experience sweeter and more intense. The soft golden colors of his Apollo’s hair and skin blurred together, and the two men pressed closer and closer. Grantaire’s body tingled agreeably, and his mind blazed with energy and excitement.

_Mon Dieu!_ He was kissing Apollo!

They broke apart, gasping for air. Grantaire was ready to continue, leading their kiss further, and Enjolras seemed inclined in the same way, but a sudden, uncomfortable bump in the road jolted them apart and sharply reminded Grantaire that they were in Jyon’s metal carriage, not safe at home in his room.

Grantaire slid across the back of the van and into the opposite wall, away from Enjolras. The revolutionary wiped his mouth, then looked down at his hands in horror, as if wondering what madness had overcome him.

Grantaire sighed in happiness and closed his eyes, flopping down on the floor. “I would love to do that again,” he said. The words drifted through the air softly, like clouds, and he was not sure whether he was in a dream or not. “If you’re willing, Apollo.”

Enjolras buried his face in his hands, but not before Grantaire opened his eyes to see him blushing a fiery red. “I—I—” he stammered.

“It’s okay,” R said breezily, though his heart pounded within his chest. He was not only enamoured with Enjolras’s body—though he definitely appreciated that aspect of him—but also his self. Grantaire was in love, as he had only ever been in love one other time. But she was long gone, a girl of the past. Enjolras was someone else, someone who was everything he was not, someone who had been, until now, inaccessible.

“If you don’t want to, that is,” Grantaire clarified. He could hope, but it was only hope. “I’ll respect your choice.”

“I...” Enjolras looked up, his face still red. A strange look of vulnerability revealed itself in his wide eyes and tense body. “I want to trust you, R,” he said in a small voice. “But you seem...forgive me...I worry you only desire my body. That...is what kept me back, among other things.”

“No, no, Apollo!” Grantaire exclaimed as reassuringly as he could. He scooted over to Enjolras and grabbed one of his sweaty hands. “You see a student in me—someone you wish to teach. To show the world, to change the world. I see a student in you as well. I wish to show you the ones you do not notice—the street urchins, the sailors, the drunkards, the whores, the ones who need you as much as I need you. If you can give a cynic like me hope, you can give them hope, too. And you are more than just an extraordinarily attractive man. You are sunlight, you are stars. I have felt lust, and I can find that in anyone. But love I know as well, that I find only in you.”

Enjolras looked him in the eyes and whispered, “I will teach you, R, if you will teach me.”

“I will,” R whispered back. They were so close now their noses touched, then their lips. This kiss was gentle and soft, the kiss of lovers.

Grantaire moaned, pulling away. “Not here,” he said, forcing himself to take his hands off Enjolras. “Not in Jyon’s carriage. But mon Dieu...later, sweet Apollo, I will love you and show you.”

Enjolras sighed and leaned into him. Grantaire pulled him close, and they cuddled for a short while.

Then Jyon’s carriage stopped. The American turned around and looked at them, grinning broadly.

“I told you so,” he said victoriously. “Both of you.”

Enjolras blushed and Grantaire smiled, kissing his Apollo on the forehead.

“I wish I had believed you,” he said.

Jyon chuckled. Then his expression turned exasperated. “Well, this part of my shipping job is done, but you’re still not in the box together.”

“Do we really have to?” Grantaire said plaintively.

“Can we go back to Paris now?” Enjolras asked.

Jyon laughed. “Kiddo, we’re in 2014 now, on the French coast. Unfortunately, my time and space magic doesn’t work well overseas, so you’ll have to take a plane from here.”

“Plane?” Enjolras said suspiciously.

“1832. Right.” Jyon grunted. “Just get in the box.”

“If you insist,” Grantaire sighed, standing up and climbing into the “cardboard” box. Enjolras frowned, but managed to squeeze inside with him. It was a tight fit.

Jyon climbed over the back seat and folded the top flap closed. The ominous sound of tape could be heard as he made sure the box was closed. Holes in the side provided minimal light and air.

Grantaire’s every breath was loud and moist. He felt around for Enjolras’s hand and grabbed it, glad to be so very close to his new lover.

Love was an odd word, he thought, but it felt to good to hear. Grantaire cleared his throat, then whispered, “Hey, Enjolras?”

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

“Oh.” There was a pause, then Apollo whispered back, “I love you too, R.”

Grantaire thought he would melt with happiness, but he was distracted by the sudden movement of the box. It rocked wildly from side to side and was lifted up off the ground.

“Jyon?” he exclaimed in panic.

“Just putting you on the dolly cart,” the American postman said cheerfully.

“What’s his name?” Enjolras hissed.

“Jean,” Grantaire replied. “But not quite. He says it more like...Jyon.”

“John?” Enjolras tried.

“Yes, that’s me,” Jyon said cheerfully. Suddenly, the box fell with a thump onto something hard. Grantaire grunted unhappily, his face squishing up against the box’s walls.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Jyon apologized. “This is the unpleasant part.”

“Does it have to be?” Grantaire complained, struggling to get in a comfortable position. He ended up with his head in Enjolras’s lap. “Hello,” he said, grinning in the dark. It was hard to see, but he thought the revolutionary smiled and rolled his eyes in response.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Jyon replied. He grunted, pushing the box, which had landed on a little cart-thing with wheels, down a ramp and out of the mail truck.

“You know, you’d think she could have afforded a bigger box,” Enjolras grumbled.

“You don’t like being all snuggled up close to me?” Grantaire asked in mock hurt.

Enjolras stroked his cheek. “No, R, I don’t mind that so much...though I do feel slightly uncomfortable, as I am not at all used to it...but my foot is cramping, and I can’t stretch it properly.”

“I’ll help, love,” Grantaire said smoothly, groping around in the dark for his Apollo’s foot. He found Enjolras’s foot and stretched it out, rubbing and massaging it gently.

Apollo sighed in relief. “Thanks.”

“Can’t be helped,” Jyon said regretfully. “They order, we deliver.”

There was an unpleasant, acrid stench in the air, and a roaring noise that Grantaire was trying hard to ignore.

 “What’s that noise?” Enjolras asked curiously.

“The engines,” Jyon explained. “Of the airplanes. We’ll be going on one of them.”

“What?” Grantaire asked, worried.

“You’ll see,” Jyon said vaguely. He chuckled. “Well, not really. You’ll hear it, and feel it, though.”

“Excuse me?” Enjolras said, a bit of his cold anger creeping into his voice.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be safe,” the postman said blithely. “Well, probably.”

The roaring only got louder. Jyon pushed their box closer and closer to the noise, until Grantaire couldn’t hear anything anyone else was saying.

Jyon stopped moving and shouted at someone else. Fear bubbled in Grantaire’s belly, and he grabbed Enjolras’s hand. Apollo squeezed it comfortingly, though his shaky breaths indicated his own fear.

The box was lifted off the ground. Grantaire swore loudly, shocked at the sudden movements.

A minute or so later, the box was dropped down on a conveyer belt. The roar of the engines slowly faded to a dull hum. Grantaire could hear himself think again.

“Mon Dieu,” he groaned, clutching his head. “I think I have a headache.”

“Too bad Joly isn’t here,” Enjolras said jokingly. “He’d fuss over you until the king died.”

“The king’s already dead,” Jyon said cheerfully, suddenly very close by. There was the sound of a door closing, and the noises of outside suddenly got much quieter. “You’re in 2014 now. I don’t know for sure, but I don’t think France has a king anymore.”

“We’re a Republic?” Enjolras asked in awe. “Really? After so long? We were successful?”

“Ehh...” Jyon thought for a moment. “Yes, kind of. And it...well, you’ll find out eventually.” There was a dark tone underlying his words, but he tried to force a smile into his voice as he continued, “But there! Why dwell on the past? We’re going on an airplane!”

The ground began to rumble, and there was a muffled voice speaking in English. Jyon shouted back to the voice in the same language, then said, “We’re taking off soon. Don’t be alarmed when we start flying.”

“Flying?” Grantaire demanded in a choked voice. “What do you mean, _flying_?”

“It’s the the twenty-first century,” Jyon explained. “We’ve invented a giant metal flying machine.”

“They have that in the future?” Enjolras asked.

“Of course,” Jyon said. “I’ve gotta go get buckled in. Stay safe—and  _don’t_ leave the box!”

Grantaire squeezed Enjolras’s hand as the rumbling increased and the ground began to shake. Soon he could feel the plane moving, and he had to suppress the urge to scream.

At last, the rumbling died down, and he could feel the pressure in the aire building.

“Mon Dieu,” he groaned. “We’re flying. Dammit. I don’t like this. Mon Dieu, no.”

“Hey, hey,” Enjolras said comfortingly. “It’s okay. John said we’d be safe.”

Grantaire swore again, this time with vehemence. “Jyon is also the crazy guy who thought putting us in a box was a good idea!”

“R, he’s just doing his job—”

“I don’t like flying!”

“R, calm down!” Apollo snapped. Grantaire scowled and glared at him in the darkness of the box.

“Fine,” he grumbled, though his grip on Enjolras’s hand only tightened.

“Jyon how long will this last?” Enjolras called out.

“Oh, eight hours or so,” the postman replied.

Grantaire swore again. “And your magic can’t—”

“Not overseas,” Jyon said. The other man, presumably the pilot of the plane, said something in English. “Eric here says I need to close the door now. Bye, friends!”

The door closed. Grantaire swore viciously.

“Deep breaths,” Enjolras advised.

“How are you keeping calm?” he snapped.

He shrugged. “It just doesn’t scare me. This is a different kind of flight than I had imagined, but I’m not afraid.”

“I’m so weak,” Grantaire mumbled. He couldn’t shake the fear. He was a man who was meant to stay on the ground, not to soar in the sky.

“No, you’re not,” Enjolras objected.

He snorted. “I know myself better than you do.”

“R, if you’re weak, I’m just as weak as you are,” Apollo told him sharply. “Just because you don’t like flying—which is a _perfectly_ reasonable fear, just because I’m not terrified doesn’t mean I’m not unnerved; this is completely unnatural—doesn’t mean you’re weak. If anything, I’m weak for ignoring you, for shaming you, for treating you like trash.”

Grantaire grunted. “Yeah, well, I guess there’s that.” He scowled. “But you’re still the strongest, most gorgeous human being I’ve ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on.”

“R, I...” Enjolras cleared his throat awkwardly, then said all in a rush, “I’ve had feelings for you for...quite a while, but I was afraid of them. Combeferre and Jehan...they figured it out, why I was acting the way I was, and they told me to tell you, but I was too afraid. You were the strong one. You kissed me first.”

“How about we settle in the middle?” Grantaire suggested, snuggling up to his Apollo. “We’re both strong, then. Just not in the same way.”

Enjolras kissed his forehead, and R felt warmth spread through him, happiness bubbling inside his belly. “I agree.”

* * *

Eight hours and two naps later, the plane finally landed on American soil. Grantaire almost cried in relief when the plane stopped moving. Enjolras hugged him and said, “See, we’re here now, we’ll be fine.”

Jyon loaded them off the plane and into another mail truck, chatting with them all the while.

“Where are we going next?” Grantaire asked, heavily relieved they were back in the van instead of on the plane.

“Your final destination,” Jyon told them happily. “To the house of the one who shipped you.”

“Who is she?” Enjolras asked suspiciously.

“Her name is confidential,” Jyon said. “But I can tell from her order form that she’s very enthusiastic about your ship. You two have a ship name, you know. They call it ‘E/R’.”

“What?” Grantaire asked.

“People—a lot of them—ship you two. Not literally, of course. This process is quite expensive, after all, especially internationally. I mean figuratively. They want you two to get together. You know. Kiss, have sex, get married, adopt children, live a long and happy life together.” Jyon chuckled darkly.

“I— _what_?" Enjolras sputtered. Grantaire only laughed. “But how do they know about us?” Enjolras asked in perplexion.

“Your tale—part of it—was written down in this epically long novel called _Les Misérables_ ,” Jyon explained. “I wasn’t only traveling through time and space with my magic van, I was traveling from your dimension to ours.”

“What?” Grantarie asked blankly. He hadn’t really understood any of that.

“A hundred years later, your life was adapted into a hit musical,” Jyon continued. “It was the musical that really spawned the thousands of fangirls and shippers, though a good portion of them went back and read the brick, too.”

“Brick?” Enjolras asked.

“ _Les Misérables_ was over a thousand page long,” Jyon said. “It’s so thick its fans call it ‘the brick’. Be glad you two and the rest of Les Amis aren’t the only characters.”

“Who else are?” Grantaire said with interest.

“Marius Pontmercy,” Jyon began.

“Courfeyrac’s friend?” Grantaire laughed. “What an idiot.”

“And his girlfriend, his girlfriend’s dad, and the police inspector who’s been chasing the father for several years,” the American finished.

“This is bizarre,” Enjolras muttered. Grantaire heartily agreed.

“Of course, you’re still living your life out in Paris, blissfully unaware that this alternate dimension you has hooked up with Grantaire and is in a cardboard box with your new lover.”

“So...this isn’t real?” Grantaire asked in disappointment.

“It is for you,” Jyon explained. “You’re here now, and you’re not going back. You’re someone else now. The other you is still in Paris.”

“I don’t understand.”

The postman shook his head. “You’re not going back now. That’s all you really need to know.”

“Oh, good,” Grantaire said in relief. He kissed Enjolras on the cheek. “I don’t really want to let him go.”

Only a few minutes later, Jyon stopped his mail truck. “We’re here,” he announced.

“So we can get out of this box now?” Grantaire asked hopefully.

“Soon,” Jyon assured them. He got out of the van and opened the back door. He hefted the box onto the dolly cart and pushed it down the ramp and onto the doorstep of the teenaged shipper’s home.

“Well, Enjolras and Grantaire,” Jyon the Postman said, “it was nice meeting you two. I hope you’re happy, and that she treats you well. You guys have been great, but I’ve got to find my next shipment soon. Someone in Ohio ordered a Destiel, and I need to get them there by the end of the day.” He coughed, then said jokingly, “And thanks for the nickname, Grantaire. I might have to change my tumblr from johntheshipper to jyontheshipper.”

“Thanks, I suppose,” Enjolras said.

“There’s one thing that's been bothering me,” Grantaire said with a frown. “How does an American speak such fluent French?”

“Limited-use babel fish,” Jyon explained. “More magic. Or science. I’m not sure which.”

“Well, goodbye, Jyon,” Grantaire said at last. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” the American postman said gruffly. “Have a good life, you two. Bye.”

He knocked on the door, then left, revving up his engine and heading south. He left the package with Grantaire and Enjolras on the girl’s doorstep.

The door opened, and there came a delighted squeal. “They’re here!” a feminine voice exclaimed.

Suddenly, the top of the box was ripped open, letting sunlight pour into Grantaire’s eyes. He winced, unused to the blazing light of the sun after such a long time in that wretched cardboard box.

He stood up, stretching his legs, then helped Enjolras to his feet. They stumbled out of the box and saw their shipper, a teenaged girl with a beaming smile on her face.

“Come in!” she gushed, grabbing a hand from each of them and pulling them toward the open door. “You’re going to love this fanfiction I wrote for you two!”

Grantaire exchanged a bemused look with Enjolras, but he followed the girl indoors. This wasn’t where he had expected his sunny, half-drunk morning to go, but it was certainly better than he could ever had imagined.

And besides, he was a little curious as to what “fanfiction” was.

 


End file.
